Once Upon A Christmastime
by Book girl fan
Summary: My entry for Hades Lord of the Dead's December Challenge of Awesomeness 2018!
1. Clothes Maketh Us All

_From Hades Lord of the Dead: For some cases, it is necessary for Holmes to cross dress. Write a piece that explores his feelings connected to this. Go into as much or little detail as you wish._

 _I don't think this is quite what you wanted, but hopefully you still like it!_

It was said that clothes maketh the man, but Holmes had long since found that the saying applied to more than just men. In his years of practice with the art of disguise, he well knew the value of a good costume and all it could conceal. The Woman was a perfect example of such. When she had dressed as a young man, he and Watson had not recognised her, passing her by with nary a thought. Even knowing she was an actress, and a very clever one at that, a simple switch of gender had hidden her completely from their sight.

Of course, even within the clothing options of his own gender such variety could apply. It had always been a particularly point of fascination to Holmes that by changing one's manner of dress one could so drastically impact their effect on the impressions of others. In fact, he had even considered writing a treatise on the subject. A sailor was viewed in quite a different way to a butcher, and both were seen very differently in comparison to the gentleman. Many of his cases would not have ended as successfully as they did if he had not used his skill with disguises to reach across lines of class, gender, and identity to become the person that was needed for the situation.

Often even when there was no such case to cause it, he would still choose to go out in disguise and spend some time in the persona of someone else. When Watson asked, Holmes told him that it was good practice, and it was, but that was not the entirety of his reasons. Sometimes, it was freeing to be somebody else, and view the world from a different perspective. After events with the Woman, ladies' clothes had entered his regular wardrobe of disguises, and one most useful fact had been discovered: ladies' sleeves were the ideal size to hide all manner of things, up to and including his pipe.


	2. Physician, Heal Thyself

_From Madam'zelleG: Physician, heal thyself_

Watson grimaced, pulling the tourniquet more tightly around his arm before tying it off. This case had not turned out like they had thought.

It had seemed like a fairly straightforward case of a man trying to cheat his daughter out of her inheritance, something so simple that Holmes would not have bothered with it if it had not come after many long weeks without a case. Even then, it was only at Watson's exhortation that he had agreed at all, something that Watson was now regretting.

As it had turned out, when they had gone to the house of the man, Mr McCline, he had not handed over the papers as Holmes had supposed he would. Instead, he had drawn a pistol from the table nearby and begun to wave it around, ranting about his deceased wife and how heartbroken she would be for her daughter to be running away from her loving parents. In his delusions, he seemed to have forgotten that his daughter was now twenty six, and far from running away, was leaving to marry a man who lived just three houses down the street.

Holmes had tried to talk to him, and point out the many signs that his daughter loved him, but was now grown with a life of her own, only the man wouldn't hear a word of it. Each word only distressed him more, until he aimed the pistol in Holmes' direction, and fired.

Watson had barely managed to push him aside in time. The bullet ended up missing Holmes entirely, but did catch Watson in the upper arm, causing the very wound that Watson was now bandaging.

"At least this should almost be over. Surely the sound of the gunshot should alert the neighbours that something has happened here," Watson whispered to Holmes, who was hovering at his shoulder with something very close to anxiety.

Holmes shook his head, eyes sparking with fury. "Letters were piling up at the doorways. There's no one home, most likely due to the awful heat in this neighbourhood. They would have gone to the seaside."

"And not Mr McCline?" Watson whispered back, trying to distract himself from the pain in his arm. The bullet had hit him in the same arm as his previous bullet wound from Afghanistan, which at least meant he still had one good arm, but also left him with an ache in his shoulder to match the shooting pains radiating out from the new injury. As a doctor, he knew that he needed help soon or he would run the risk of losing use of that arm entirely.

"He would not have wanted to leave his daughter alone so long, in case she find the papers and leaves him."

"His wife is already gone, he will not accept his daughter leaving too," Watson breathed, a feeling of kinship rising within him. He knew the pain that losing a loved one could bring. Holmes nodded to confirm his hypothesis. Watson struggled to his feet. "Then let me talk to him."

Holmes aided him upright, concerned. "Watson, this man is dangerous."

"I'm not dangerous!" McCline said loudly, obviously overhearing Holmes' less than careful words. "I would never hurt Eliza, I just want her to be safe! That's what Sophia would have wanted."

"And you want Eliza to be happy, don't you?" Watson asked. "Because that's what Sophia would have wanted. I'm sure Sophia must have loved your daughter very much."

McCline's pistol wavered, the man blinking heavily. "There was no better mother than my Sophia. She loved Eliza more than anything."

Watson took a careful step closer, Holmes shadowing him. "And now she's gone, and you don't want Eliza to leave too. When my Mary died, I would have done anything to keep some part of her with me. But will this make Eliza happy?"

The pistol dropped further. "She's all I have," McCline pleaded. "I can't lose her."

Watson took another step closer, blinking back the darkness that was beginning to encroach on his vision. They needed to end this quickly. "You won't lose her, not unless you continue like this. You need to put down the pistol, Mr McCline. You won't lose her as long as you put that down." He held out his hand for the weapon.

McCline hesitated for a moment, then handed the pistol over to Watson. Watson smiled at him. "Your daughter loves you, Mr McCline. Even getting married won't change that."

McCline nodded, wiping roughly at his eyes.

Watson turned back to Holmes, who was still standing just a half-step behind him. He handed Holmes the pistol. "My dear friend, could you hold on to this for a moment? I need to sit down."


	3. Played Out

_From Hades Lord of the Dead: In preparation of the new Holmes and Watson movie coming out this Christmas, please write a Sherlock Holmes parody. This can be a parody of the original canon or of SH fanfiction in general, whichever you prefer!_

Holmes looked away from the stage with a snort of disgust. "Really, Watson, I do not know why you dragged me here."

"My agent granted us the tickets," I replied, my own good humour sorely damaged by the events of the first act. "He said it was based on my stories, though I did not picture it quite like this."

"At least your stories are tolerable," Holmes said, which was an admittance I had not heard from him before. "Even that illustrator, despite his insistence on that hat, has some degree of accuracy. This is merely drivel."

"It's not all bad," I weakly defended. Even though I did not like the play much myself, I felt it to somehow be my duty as a fellow writer to defend it from Holmes' critique. After all, it was still nominally a play about us, and it was an honour to have inspired that.

Holmes dismissed my words with a wave. "Their crime is trite and obvious, and any true disciple of logic should have found the criminal within thirty minutes. You could make better deductions than the ones portrayed here."

I was not offended, my long friendship with Holmes securing me in the knowledge that he had not meant it as an insult, but rather a simple comparison. "Still, even if the crime is obvious, the adventure is interesting. Surely you must wonder how the characters will find each other again."

"There was no need to separate them in the first place! You would not be so easily tricked as your stage counterpart, and have demonstrated your deftness with a pistol on many of our cases. A kidnapping makes nearly as little sense as that abominable romance!"

At that I laughed, finally letting go of my inclination to defend the play. "Very well, Holmes, you have defeated me. I must admit, I do not see where any of my readers could have imagined a romance between you and Mrs Norton."

Holmes stood, a twinkle in his eye. "Now that you have admitted this play is not worth watching, there is supposed to be a symphony tonight at a park not ten minutes walk from here."

I gathered my coat from my chair and stood, favouring my friend with a smile. "By all means, Holmes, lead on."


	4. Christmas Shopping

_From SheWhoScrawls: Christmas shopping_

"Alright!" Wiggins clapped his hands, gaining the attention of every merrily chattering member of the Irregulars. This was their annual tradition, and every one of them was excited to be there. "We have four gifts to get this year. Mr Holmes, the doc, Mrs Doc, and Mrs Hudson."

One of the Irregulars hesitantly spoke up, pushing her dirty blonde hair further into her knitted cap. "Can't we get a gift for the doc and his missus together?"

"Naw, Lucy, that's cheating!" One of the boys scoffed. "We can't give gifts together!"

"Mrs Doc fixed Tabby," another girl, even smaller than Lucy, said with a frown. "She should get something all her own."

"She never lets us leave without a meal, neither." This boy followed his words by wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. "She even gave me cookies."

The group broke into clamours as each of them tried to share a story of something 'Mrs Doc' had done for them. Finally, Wiggins shouted, calling them back to order. "We've decided then, Mrs Doc gets her own present. Now, bring out the money."

The crowd parted to let a little boy come to the front, clutching a box to his chest with a beaming smile. Wiggins took the box from him, ruffling his hair. "Thanks, Petey." Ceremoniously, he counted out the money as the others waited with bated breath. When all the money had been counted, he looked up with a smile. "We've got more than last year."

A cheer went through the crowd. As Wiggins began to shout out orders, small groups of them would scurry off to do as commanded. "You five! You're finding something for Mrs Hudson. She likes brooches and fancy teacups, so look for something like that. Over there! No, just you three, not you Jimmy. Find something for the doc. Listen to Rosie, she has good ideas. Jimmy, you're in the group over there, something for Mrs Doc. She likes pretty things, try the markets near Wellington Avenue." As the park gradually emptied out, he turned to the four Irregulars standing in front of him. "You lot have the hardest job of all. You need to find a present for Mr Holmes."

They beamed at him, shivering in the cold night air. "We'll do it, Wiggins. We'll find the perfect present!" They waited for his nod, then scampered off into the night.

Wiggins watched them go, then turned back to pick up the box of money. Once the groups had scouted out some appropriate presents, they'd come back to him, and he'd figure out what they could afford to buy. This year they were a bit better off than the last, partly because of Mrs Hudson and Mrs Watson's determination to keep them all fed, meaning less money needing to be spent on food. Hopefully they'd manage to find presents good enough to thank all four of them for everything they'd done.

A smile broke out over Wiggins' face, and he began to whistle a jaunty tune. It may not be quite like other people's Christmas shopping, but for him, this was the best part of the season.


	5. Gingerbread

_From Wordwielder: Gingerbread_

"Mummy, I want to hold the gingerbread!"

Beth Lestrade smiled at her daughter, eyes flickering away from the gentle snow falling outside to focus on the little face staring pleadingly up at her. "Let's move it down to the table, Cathy. Then there will be room for you and your brother."

Cathy screwed up her face, nose crinkling with displeasure. "But Ben's too small! He can't help!"

"You helped last year, didn't you?" Beth reminded her as she carried the first tray of gingerbread pieces over to the kitchen table. "And Ben's the same age as you were then. This gingerbread house is for both of you."

"No it's not!" Cathy protested, following behind her mother. "It's for daddy!"

"Daddy!" Ben squealed, running into the room. "Daddy here?"

Beth leant down to caress his dark curls, an inheritance from his father's side of the family. "Not yet, sweetheart." She stood upright again, returning to the kitchen counter for another batch of gingerbread. "Now, shall we build this house?"

"Yay!" Both children cheered, running around her to the table and climbing onto the chairs surrounding it.

Beth laid down the last tray of gingerbread, and within moments the little family was hard at work. Cathy, having made a gingerbread house the previous year, considered herself an expert, helping her little brother to glue his pieces into place with the sticky icing. Beth intervened only when one of the children were at risk of falling or when an argument seemed inevitable, which fortunately was not often. Soon, they had a pretty little gingerbread house sitting in front of them, sticky with icing, and crumbling on the edges, but otherwise intact.

"Eat time!" Ben cheered, reaching for a piece.

Cathy slapped his hand away. "No, you can't eat it yet! Now we need to decorate and make it pretty."

"Don't hit your brother, Cathy." Beth stood up and brought another tray from the kitchen counter, this one with coloured sugar, more icing, and some little squares of fudge. "And don't use all the fudge yet, save some of the fudge for later. That's daddy's favourite."

"Daddy here?" Ben turned big brown eyes up at his mother.

She smiled at him. "Not yet, sweetheart." Still, she couldn't stop her eyes from flickering over to the door.

"But it's so dark, and this is his favourite part!" Cathy crossed her arms. "I want to wait for Daddy."

"Daddy won't mind," Beth told her. "Go ahead and start decorating."

"No!"

"No!" Ben echoed.

"Well, I'd like to decorate, so I'm starting now." Beth sat down at the table and picked up one of the little bowls of sugar.

The front door creaked open, letting a flurry of cold wind into the house, followed by something – or someone – else. "I can see you've been busy!"

"Daddy!" Cathy and Ben jumped off their chairs, taking off across the dining room to wrap their arms around Lestrade's legs. Beth wasn't moving slowly either, getting up to kiss her husband before he could even take off his coat. She then chivvied the children a little further back, giving Lestrade just enough room to take off his wet outerwear before they were on him once again.

After a few minutes more, Ben and Cathy finally released Lestrade for long enough that all of the little family could take a seat at the table. "You've done excellent work," Lestrade told the children seriously. "There's just one thing left to do."

Anyone looking in the Lestrades' window that cold winter night would have seen the small family lit by lamplight, laughing and smiling as they sat around the kitchen table, decorating the prettiest gingerbread house their family had ever seen.


	6. The Weight Of Sin

_From Madam'zelleG: Old sins cast long shadows._

 _I'll be away for the next few days, so although I'll do my best to keep writing and posting stories, there may be a bit of a delay._

As I sat in the carriage taking me to prison, I knew there would be no return journey. This would be my final resting place.

This wasn't the first time my life had collapsed around me, but now I was much older, with a far greater list of sins against my name. After I'd been dismissed from the army, I thought things would finish there, that I would lose myself inside a bottle within the year. Instead, I found someone else, the man who became my best friend, and ultimately, my downfall.

James had been the most brilliant man I had ever met. He was a Professor, a genius who all his colleagues thought to be living in his own little world, when really, he had formed a kingdom instead. There was not a single crook in London he didn't know of, and his name was feared across the dark underbellies of Europe.

But for all that, he was my friend. We spent long nights philosophising on the nature of man, and how the hunter can become the hunted. He didn't tell me everything, he was too private for that, but he would share many of his dealings with me, and trusted me with those secrets. Really, trust was the iron core that lay beneath us. I trusted him with my true nature, and he trusted me with his.

Then James died.

The papers said he took that cursed Holmes down with him, and I could live with losing him if that was the price he had chosen to pay, but then reports started coming in. All over Europe, even into Asia and Africa, Moriarty's spiderwebs were coming undone. Someone was slashing through them all, and no one would know better how to do that than Sherlock Holmes.

I had no proof, no way to track him, or I would have hunted him down and skinned him for destroying James' legacy. Instead, I continued to live the life of petty crime I had fallen into after James' death, but kept my eye on the doctor. The bait was set. All I needed was patience, and the prey would come sniffing.

I did succeed in drawing Holmes back to London, but my attempt on his life did not go as smoothly as I hoped. Instead, I was arrested, charged, and was now on my way to a prison cell. I had wanted revenge for James, and instead I would join him in death.

The carriage drew to a stop, and I was escorted out. A pair of prison guards stepped forward to meet me, leading me inside as the guards in the carriage reboarded and drove away. Just before entering the prison gates, we came to a stop. One of the guards looked away, and I knew, this was it. The time had come to pay the price of my sins.

The other guard leaned in close to me. I could see the freckles on his nose, and the oddly pretty, almost girlish face. He looked a bit familiar somehow, though I couldn't place why. "This is for Ronald." Face screwing up, he made a quick jabbing motion, and as he drew back I saw a glint of metal.

Then there was nothing.


	7. Christmastime Memories

_From KnightFury: A case keeps Holmes far from home at Christmastime._

 _Only after I'd started writing did I notice that it was supposed to be a case keeping him from home, so I kind of missed that. Hopefully you like it anyway!_

Holmes sank to the ground for a moment, weary from the long climb up the mountain. Finally he had reached a sheltered spot where he could sit long enough to check his direction and catch his breath without the biting wind ripping the compass from his fingers. With hands stiff from cold, he drew his notebook from his pack, cursing as he nearly dropped it. He'd been using his notebook to keep track of his journey, and if he lost it now, he'd never make it back down.

Opening the notebook, his eye was caught by the date in the top left corner: 24 December. It was already Christmas Eve. Watson had thought him dead for months already.

For a moment, he let himself remember the previous Christmas Eve. Watson and Mary had insisted he come for dinner, and that he dressed in his seasonal dress. He'd shown up without it, not owning any, and Mary had just laughed and brought out a sweater then she'd knitted just for him. He'd spent the whole evening there, and then the night as well, eating good food and enjoying the company of friends. Even the memory was enough to bring back some of the warmth of the fireplace, and he momentarily wished that he had never even heard of James Moriarty.

The memory faded, and he wearily struggled to his feet, hefting the pack on his back higher. Moran was still behind him, and he had hours left to travel before the dawn.


	8. Blue

_From W. Y. Traveller: Blue_

"Mary?" Watson enquired, opening the door to their bedroom. "You've been up here all day. Is something wrong?"

Mary looked up to greet him with a watery smile, wiping at her eyes. "Just feeling a bit blue, John dear." Her chest rose with a hitching sob. "It hasn't been a very good day."

He sat down beside her on the bedspread, taking her hand in his. "Tell me."

She gestured aimlessly with one hand. "Well, this morning my favourite necklace broke, and I was in such a hurry to leave I couldn't find all the pieces, so I don't know if it can be fixed. Then the ladies in my sewing circle had a small Christmas party, where each of us brought a present for someone else, except no one brought a present for me!" Tears started to come to her eyes again, her voice wobbling. "They were all so very sorry, but I still left early because it was so hard to watch them with their presents when I didn't have one. Then," he voice hitched, "then I met one of my friends on the way home, out buy a silk scarf for another friend of hers. She was so happy to talk about it, saying that it was what she does for every friend for their first Christmas knowing each other, and wasn't it wonderful that I was there to help her shop?"

Here Mary paused, smiling slightly even through her tears. "It's silly, I suppose, to begrudge a friend a present, and I don't really, it's just–" Her smile broke. "It's my first Christmas knowing her too, and I don't even know if she remembers." She began to sob, collapsing into Watson's arms as he pulled her closer. He held her tight, murmuring comforts into her hair, and wondered bleakly why it was that sometimes those dearest to us could cause the worst hurts of all.


	9. Queen and Country

_A bonus chapter! This one is also a bit bleak, but it's been a difficult day. Hopefully I'll get back up to date tomorrow!_

 _From Domina Temporis: Queen and country_

 _For Queen and country._

I work to slow the gushing flow of blood, the mantra running through my mind.

 _For Queen and country._

We're all out here at Her Majesty's pleasure, serving to defend her realm, or in some cases, to care for those who defend it. It's a time-honoured profession, with three square meals a day, chances for honour and prestige, all in the name of Her Majesty.

 _For Queen and country._

But does Her Majesty know the strife we live with every day? To have a friend's body under my knife as I fight to save him? To wonder how many of the men I chatted with at mess tonight will live to see their families again? Sometimes I wonder what I'm even doing here. This desert isn't my country.

 _For Queen and country._

Finally, the man on my table is all patched up. I don't know if he'll ever be able to use that shoulder fully again, but at least John Watson will survive, and someday may even be able to serve Queen and country again.


	10. A Christmas Expedition

_From Mrspencil: Holmes goes Christmas shopping._

Holmes begins his journey

Of buying presents for his friends

By leaving home, 221B,

To see the brightness Christmas lends.

Christmastime in London Town,

Has always been quite grand.

Streets that other days are brown,

In this time are far from bland.

Holmes searches windows, shops and stores,

Looking for the perfect gifts.

He finds the first one, then two, three, four,

But with the last, is left adrift.

His Watson now has a young wife,

Who would need a gift of her own.

Though Holmes has solved plenty of strife,

At this, his prowess is unknown.

He thinks, considers, ponders,

This is quite a challenging case!

At last, now worn out, he wanders

Back home, at a wearied pace.

Finally, something catches his sight,

And he enters the store's welcome heat.

To have found the right present brings such delight

For what gift can be better than sweets?


	11. Inspector Wiggins

_From Stutley Constable: Inspector Wiggins is on the case._

"Evenin', Inspector," the officer at the scene called out to him, doffing his cap. "It's a right gory one, tonight. Only mercy is the cold keeping the stench away. "

Inspector Wiggins nodded in return. "With any luck, all the gore should make it an easy case. That's what Mr Holmes used to say, anyway – the special ones are easy, it's the dime a dozen ones that are the real hard cases."

"Yes sir," the officer replied, obviously more out of respect than any real comprehension. He held up the tape for Wiggins to come through.

Wiggins ducked under and made his way into the house, holding back a sigh. Time was when every policeman in London had known the name of Sherlock Holmes. Now, there were so few left who had known the man personally, and for the rest he was a legend at best, only known from the doctor's stories. Some, like the officer outside, had never even heard of him at all.

"What have we got?" Wiggins asked, stepping into the room with the body. He took a glance around, soaking in information the way he remembered from his years watching Mr Holmes.

His sergeant stepped forward, notebook in hand. "Looks like murder, sir, a simple brawl gone wrong. Pretty gory, but more likely heat of the moment than anything." He indicated a blood-encrusted poker lying by the hearth. "Must have had an argument, other man grabs the poker, beats our victim, gets the blood everywhere, then realises what he's done and scarpers. Clear-cut case."

Wiggins crouched down beside the poker, examining it carefully. "Not quite, Tolston. This poker doesn't belong here. It's much better quality than anything you'd find in this house. More likely the murderer brought it with him." He stood up, walking around the room. "Brought his own weapon, so this was planned, but this is messier than you'd think a planned murder would be. Lots of gore, lots of blood."

"Maybe it's an example? One of the gangs showing what happens if you don't pay up?" Tolston suggested.

Wiggins shook his head. "Still would have been clearer than this. All this mess, that's someone who's angry. More likely they came to threaten, but something made them furious."

He scanned the room, waiting for something to jump out at him. It was times like this he wished Mr Holmes was still around, or even Doctor Watson. They would have spotted something by now. But they were both long gone, the doc never having made it back from the war, and Mr Holmes following shortly after. Neither could help him now.

The door slammed open as a constable rushed in, before being hurried back out again by Tolston. Still, the gust of wind brought in from outside caused a flickering from the grate, catching Wiggins' eye. He knelt down, brushing off the ashes of the letter. Quickly, he scanned the page, and the dark stains splattered across one corner, before turning to Tolston and handing it over. "Get men to this address immediately, and bring in the husband of Anna Canavry. And while you're there, check for a poker. Actually," he snatched the letter back, striding towards the door. "I'll come with you."

As he stepped outside and hailed for a carriage, he let a smile drift over his face. Mr Holmes may have been gone, but his legacy lived on.


	12. Thrill of the Fight

_From zanganito: Sherlock gets into a fist fight._

"Holmes!" I pushed through to the front of the crowd, fighting against the cheering people surrounding me. Several shot me black looks, turning away with their betting papers clutched in their fists.

Finally, I managed to push through, bursting through into the loose ring of space left around the brawlers. Just as I suspected, one of them was Holmes, wearing a mad smile as he and his opponent circled each other, panting. They were both bruised and bleeding, yet to my medical eye I could see nothing serious enough to stop the fight. I would simply have to wait.

As it turned out, I did not need to wait long. With a flurry of moves too quick for the crowd to follow, Holmes brought his opponent to the ground. The crowd rushed forward to congratulate him and collect their winnings, and in their rush I could finally come close enough for Holmes to hear me. "Holmes!"

He looked over at me, eyes still bright from the thrill of the fight. "Watson! You should have come earlier, you missed the finest part!"

I brushed his words aside. "Holmes, I saw Warberts entering the Iron Dragon. We may have a chance to follow him, if he is still there."

Holmes rushed forward and grabbed my arm, pulling me with him towards the pub. As he strode, the crowd around him melted away by the force of his presence. "Then come, Watson! We have a villain to catch!"


	13. Learning To Skate

_From mrspencil: learning to skate_

"That's it, John, just hold on to me." John gripped my arm tightly as I skated slowly beside him, his movements hesitant and stilted. He'd told me about the fun he and his brother had had as children, skating on their local pond, and so I had thought it a fine idea to go skating together as a surprise. It was only when we had arrived that John confided to me that he had not been ice-skating since he had received his leg wound, and did not know if he could still do it. I had offered for us to leave, but he had insisted it was worth a try, thus leading us to where we were now.

I pulled John gently forward, still holding his arm tightly. It was taking some time for John's skills to return, but he was still improving much faster than a beginner would have. It would not be much longer, I hoped, until we could take a proper turn around the ice together.

In my eagerness, I pulled slightly too hard, and John lost his balance, pulling me to the ice with him. I lay there for a moment, quite frozen with surprise, while John worriedly asked me if I was hurt. Once my shock had passed, I began to laugh. It seemed John was not the only one who far from an expert skater!

Together, John and I stumbled upright, still laughing. "Maybe we should stop now," I giggled. "It seems I am not such a good teacher as I thought!"

"Nonsense!" With a bright smile, John turned to me. "I'm sure we're almost there, Mary. Let's have one more try."

I nodded my agreement, finally reigning in my giggles, and took his arm in mine. "Let's try." Arm I'm arm, we took off. At first, John's steps were wobbly, just as they had been before we crashed, but they then grew smooth, lengthening our, until the two of us were gliding side by side across the ice. I laughed from sheer exhilaration. This feeling was worth every moment it had taken to get there.


	14. Clandestine Meetings

_From mrspencil: Moriarty at a Christmas ball_

Moriarty accepted a glass of mulled wine from a passing waiter, eyes drifting over the crowd. It was always interesting watching the people who came to a ball such as this. Everyone wanted to be seen, except for those who knew they didn't need to be. Those, however, were in the minority, far outdone by the flashy tuxedos and sparkling dresses of England's elite, wishing to show off their presence at London's most prestigious Christmas ball.

A tall figure making his way through the crowd caught Moriarty's eye, and he raised his glass in acknowledgement. Once the man was close enough, Moriarty greeted him. "Welcome, Colonel. I trust you are in good health?"

"Well enough," Moran said gruffly. His shoulder were pulled back with tension, and when the waiter returned with another platter of drinks, Moran quickly shooed him away. "Let's just get on with it, then. I don't want us to be here any longer than we have to be."

"Does being here make you uncomfortable, my dear Colonel?" Moriarty's penetrating gaze rested on Moran.

"It's not the party," Moran growled. "You know I like these parties, when I can have a proper time. This would have been fine if I was just having a drink, or even out on the dance floor, but why the deuce would you make this the place to discuss-" he looked furtively around the room, "- your operation?"

"It was the natural choice." Moriarty sipped his mulled wine, turning back to the festively decorated dancers waltzing across the floor. "For who would expect a Christmas ball to be the place of a clandestine meeting?"


	15. Christmas Pudding

_Prompt from W. Y. Traveller: Christmas pudding._

"No thank you, Mrs Hudson," Wiggins said politely. "We don't want more Christmas pudding."

"Are you sure?" Mrs Hudson questioned sceptically, still holding out the plate of pudding. It glistened richly on the plate, studded with dried fruits and iced on top, looking like it had descended directly from the dreams of sleeping children waiting for Christmas. She waved the plate enticingly, allowing the freshly baked aroma to drift under their noses.

Several Irregulars clapped their hands to their mouths. One looked faintly green. Wiggins swallowed heavily, face briefly betraying a grimace of discomfort before, with clear effort, he regained his polite demeanour. "Really, missus, we don't want any more. We'll just go now. Please tell Mr Holmes about the German man." With that, Wiggins chivvied the other Irregulars off the steps and onto the street, all of them disappearing into the crowds before Mrs Hudson could say a word.

She closed the door, shaking her head. Whatever was wrong with those boys that they didn't want her pudding, it wasn't her business. She'd just tell Mr Holmes their report and forget about it.

When Mr Holmes came home several hours later, however, she found it wasn't that easy. After delivering the Irregulars' report, she hovered in the doorway, unsure whether it was worth mentioning. It was too small a thing to be bothered with, surely, and yet weren't the small details always what Mr Holmes looked for?

Finally Mr Holmes ended her dilemma. "Mrs Hudson, it's bothering you that the Irregulars did not want any Christmas pudding?"

"It's just not right!" she burst out, too relieved that he had mentioned it to care how he had figured it out. She had long grown used to his deductions and how he seemed to know things without ever being told. "Young boys like that, I've seen enough to know they wouldn't get much food at home. Certainly nothing home cooked like mine! Why would they suddenly turn down my cooking?"

Mr Holmes surprised her with a laugh. "It's not your cooking that's the problem, my dear Madame. It's the pudding!"

"The pudding?" she asked confusedly. "What's wrong with pudding?"

"Nothing, except that it is the choice treat to give to Christmas carollers, especially for those who sing 'We Wish You A Merry Christmas'. Which so happened to be what my Irregulars were doing last night to track down Herr Gueller." Mr Holmes said. "I believe that after last night it will be a long time before my Irregulars eat any more pudding at all!"


	16. Creatures of Myth and Legend

_Prompt from sirensbane: Holmes and/or Watson meet a mythical creature._

"A dragon, Holmes, really?" Watson sat back in his chair, incredulity obvious. "If I did not know you better, I would think you were mocking me."

"Have I not told you, Watson, that when you eliminate the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?" Holmes calmly lit his pipe, seemingly unbothered by the fantastic nature of the tale he was relating. "And when a large reptile is flying at you, fire billowing from it's mouth, dragons suddenly seem far less improbable than they once were."

Watson stared at him quizzically for a moment, then shook his head. "I just confess, Holmes, I cannot tell if you are lying, or to what purpose you would do so. You seem to believe it, but how can I know this is not the result of a madness, like with the Devil's Foot root?"

Holmes jumped to his feet. "Quite simple, Watson. I can prove it. I will take you to the dragon, and you can see it for yourself. Then you will know it is not madness, but reality."

"If this is false," Watson warned, "you have lost all privileges of referring to my writing as romantic drivel." Despite his words, he was already clambering to his feet, willing to follow Holmes into this danger just as much as he had every other.


	17. A Sock

_Sorry for the delay in posting, it has been a very busy holiday season! I'm still aiming to finish the challenge in time, though I may still be answering reviews and catching up on everyone else's stories even into the New Year. Anyway, on with the story!_

 _Prompt from BookRookie12: "I need a sock. No, not a pair of socks. *A* sock, singular."_

"What on earth are you looking for, Holmes?" Watson twisted around in his chair to look at Holmes, who was pacing up and down the room, hunting for something with increasing desperation.

"I need a sock," Holmes told him distractedly, still searching. He began lifting up items on the mantelpiece, moving them and then replacing them with a frustrated expression.

"Wouldn't your bedroom be a better place to look?" Watson asked.

Holmes ignored him, carrying on searching.

Watson blew out a breath of frustration. "If you really need socks, you can get some from my bedroom. I'm sure you already know where I keep them."

Holmes still ignored him.

"Or I can get a pair." Watson groaned internally at the thought of leaving his comfortable spot by the fire, particularly in this cold weather. The cold had always made his old injuries particularly painful, but when Holmes was in a mood like this, he often needed an outside distraction to break him out of it.

Slowly, Watson began to struggle to his feet, but almost immediately Holmes interrupted him. "No, not a pair of socks. _A_ sock, singular. In particular, the sock of the late Duchess Albright."

Watson slumped gratefully back into his armchair, looking at Holmes with interest. "Was there something particular about the sock?"

"One or two points of interest," Holmes said, stopping his search to look at him, "on which, if my suspicions are correct, the whole case may rest."

"Then we will find it. You are the world's greatest detective, Holmes," Watson teased, eyes sparkling. "I'm sure you'll manage to find a sock."


	18. Lestrade Finds A Secret

_Prompt from Ennui Enigma: Inspector Lestrade discovers a secret that Holmes tries to keep from Watson_

"This way, Holmes!" Lestrade beckoned down the alley, where he could see the consulting detective's tall frame coming slowly toward him. As the detective drew closer, however, Lestrade could see his flushed features and overbright eyes, and more tellingly, the absence of Dr Watson. "You didn't say you were ill, Holmes!"

"I most certainly am not!" Holmes indignantly protested. In direct contradiction to his words, he sneezed loudly three times in succession. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he conceded, "Besides, even if I did happen to be unwell, there would be no need for Watson to know."

Lestrade raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Are you sure, Holmes? That seems like-" He was interrupted by Holmes sneezing again. His eyebrow rose further. "As I was saying, it seems like something Watson would prefer to know."

"I am perfectly sure, Inspector. Watson does not need to know." Putting his handkerchief back in his pocket, Holmes strode forward, weaving only slightly. "Now, where is the body?"

Lestrade reluctantly let the subject go, moving further down the alley to show Holmes where the body lay, nearly hidden under a pile of rags. Holmes stalked around the body, then crouched down to look at it more closely, staying stock still for several long minutes.

Finally, Lestrade could stand the suspense no longer. "What have you found, Holmes?"

Holmes abruptly sat back, almost as if he had been startled. "Young man from Scotland, came down here to spend Christmas with his fiancée. They had only communicated through letters, never in person. They were meant to meet here, but her father found out and followed her here, where he killed the young man. There are clear footsteps here and there," he pointed to one side of the alley, "to show where the father dragged the body under the rags."

Lestrade closed his gaping mouth, afraid of looking foolish in front of his men. "Right then, and where would we find the father?"

"The fiancee's name will be on the letters in the man's coat pocket. The stains on his fingers showed he was handling them all day, likely looking forward to their meeting." Holmes rose to his feet, then wobbled. Lestrade reached out to him, but was quickly shaken off. "Look at the alley entrance for a green coat, slightly worn. There you'll find the letters." Nearly as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Holmes broke into a fit of coughing. This time, when Lestrade reached out to steady him, he did not move away from the touch.

As Holmes continued to cough, Lestrade sent two men to the entrance of the alley to look for the coat, and after a moment's thought, sent a man off to Baker Street. Whatever Holmes thought, Watson would want to know.

Finally, Holmes' coughing began to ease, and he could stand without assistance. He opened his mouth to speak, but Lestrade interrupted him. "Before you say anything, Holmes, I've already sent men up to look for the coat, and I've sent a man for Dr Watson as well. Your part is done now, you can just wait here until Watson arrives." To soften his words, he continued, "If I let you die of pneumonia on my crime scene, I think Watson would kill me!"

Holmes, who had been looking mutinous until that moment, burst out with a short barking laugh. "Then in the interests of preventing a murder, I will stay put."


	19. Irregulars Grown

_Prompt from sirensbane: The Irregulars...where are they now?_

"Mornin', Inspector."

Inspector Wiggins stopped, turning to look at the small boy who had just run up to him. "Sun's gone down, Bill."

Bill shrugged, torn shirt collar slipping down to reveal one skinny shoulder. "Still morning if you just got up." He jerked his thumb towards a nearby alleyway. "Boss wants a word."

Wiggins followed the boy into the alleyway. He knew the boss Billy was talking about, and had a feeling what the conversation was going to be about. With his new promotion to Inspector, their relationship might not be quite so easy to maintain as it used to be.

A little way down the alley, nearly hidden in the evening gloom, was a short red headed man who greeted Wiggins with a familiar smile. "Hey, Wiggins. Heard about the upgrade." He eyed Wiggins up and down, nodding slightly. Wiggins stared at him in return, trying to figure out what this was about, now that his initial suspicions had been disproven. "Looks good on you. Hope it won't change things, though."

"As long as your pickpocketing doesn't become something more serious, don't see why it should." Finally it clicked, and Wiggins' mouth turned down. "You have bad news. Is it Holmes?"

The man's eyes grew wide, and he chuckled slightly, before it faded away into a sad smile. "Nearly as good as he was. Yeah, it's Holmes. Day before yesterday."

Wiggins closed his eyes in grief. He'd seen it coming, all the old Irregulars had. After Dr Watson had died in the Great War, then Mycroft Holmes just a few months later, they'd all known it was only a matter of time until Holmes followed them. "Did he leave anything behind?" Wiggins asked, although he already suspected the answer.

"Nothing much," the other man confirmed. "Left some papers to Watson's daughter, and his bees to a friend. There was some money, but not a lot. You might be getting a telegram next week. He knew you were good."

Wiggins smiled at him. "Thanks, Charlie. You'll let the others know?"

Charlie nodded, slipping back into the shadows of the alley. Wiggins left the alley and continued his route home, thinking on the news. He might end up getting a telegram, but even if he did, nothing could mean as much as the words Mr Holmes had given him when he'd left Baker Street for the country, where Dr Watson had already departed. ' _This city is yours now, young Wiggins,_ ' Mr Holmes had said, looking solemnly at him. ' _Take care of her_.' He had only been able to nod, overcome with the responsibility being entrusted to him. Those words meant more to him than any amount of money ever could.


	20. Lost In Translation

_Today's prompt was from sirensbane: Lost in translation. This was a tricky one to come up with something for, but once I had the idea, it was so much fun!_

"I simply don't understand it, Holmes!" Lestrade paced up and down the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, pulling distractedly at the ends of his moustache. "It doesn't make sense! How could he have been killed if they were all in the room with him at the time?" He turned to Holmes, stopping his pacing long enough to look down at the detective lounging on the sofa. "Surely you must have some idea."

Holmes pointed to his throat.

"Strangulation?" Lestrade brushed the idea aside. "No, impossible! Someone surely would have noticed. You must have a better idea!"

Holmes pointed to his throat again, more vehemently than before.

Lestrade snorted at him. "Please, Holmes. I would have noticed if he'd been stabbed in the throat! I know you don't think much of Scotland Yard, but we are certainly capable of that."

Holmes closed his eyes for a long moment, long enough that Lestrade wondered if he had simply fallen asleep. He then opened them and pointed to the mug of tea that was sitting in the nearby table.

Lestrade's eyes lit up. "That's it! It must be poison! Holmes, that was just the idea I needed!" He raced down the stairs, brushing past Watson as he came in from a long day at his practice.

Watson stared after him in bemusement, then shrugged, making his way up the seventeen stairs to his own comfortable sitting room. "I'm back! Has your voice returned yet, Holmes? I know it must be very boring for you, not being able to solve cases right now, but hopefully the honey tea will get you better soon!"


	21. Disease

_Prompt from zanganito: Disease_

"You know it won't be long now, John," Mary said softly, face drawn and gaunt against the pillow. She knew that this was one of the few periods of lucidity she'd had over the last few days, and she may not have another before the end. This was her last chance.

John nodded, throat too tight to speak. He tried for a reassuring smile, but Mary could see right through it.

She squeezed his hand. "Don't. I know I won't make it. I don't need you to be my doctor, or to tell me it will be alright. I need you to be my husband. Just be here with me."

John's smile this time was more watery than reassuring, but managed to last a few scant seconds longer. "Of course, Mary. I'll stay with you. Til death do us part."

Mary tried to smile back at him, but could already feel her strength slipping away, fog creeping into her mind just as exhaustion filled her body. Only half-conscious, thoughts already becoming confused and scattered, she managed to say, "Thank Sherlock for me, would you? For sharing you with me."

Her last thought before she faded away completely was to wonder why he was crying.


	22. Beekeeping

_Prompt from zanganito: Sherlock meets a beekeeper._

"Amazing." Sherlock pressed his face against the glass, the vibrations of his voice making the bees startle.

I restrained a sigh. I had told Mother I would look after Sherlock for the afternoon, but I had not thought Sherlock would so easily become distracted by our favourite game of Deductions by something as simple a case of bees. I was sure when I was six I had not been so easily distracted.

"Where are you taking them?" Sherlock asked the beekeeper, face still mashed against the glass.

The beekeeper laughed and tousled my brother's dark curls. I pursed my lips, fingers tightening on my umbrella. As much as I hated unnecessary action, I would not allow this man to do anything to my brother. "I'm taking them up to Lord Hoyton's estate. Lady Hoyton wishes to have fresh honey on her toast every morning, so the lord ordered for some bees, and I'll be keeping them."

Sherlock finally turned away from the glass to look up at the man, then twisted look at me. "Mycroft, could I keep bees?"

I shook my head sharply. "We don't need bees, Sherlock."

"But we could have honey on toast!" Sherlock's eyes were wide and pleading, but I remained unmoved. Sherlock was prone to occasional short-term interests, quickly investigated and just as quickly abandoned once he felt he knew enough. This interest in bees would no doubt be similar.

Sherlock's shoulders slumped as he apparently recognised my firm stance on the issue. "Alright, Mycroft." He turned back to the beekeeper. "Thank you, sir, for letting me see your bees."

The beekeeper doffed his cap at him. "My pleasure, little gentleman. Hope you'll get your own some day!"

I nodded at him, but didn't say anything. The man had managed to keep Sherlock occupied, which I was grateful for, but I found it unlikely Sherlock would ever keep bees. His mind would be wasted on such a thing.


	23. Christmas Island

_Prompt from Madam'zelleG: Christmas Island._

 _Christmas Island_.

One of the Irregulars had heard Dr Watson mention it, and since then, it had captivated all of their imaginations. On Christmas Island, they whispered to each other, it was Christmas all the time.

"Christmas Island is where Christmas trees come from," Sally whispered to little Charlie as they watched in awe through the window while a happy family dressed their Christmas tree. "And everyone on the island decorates them together."

"They serve hot chocolate with every meal on Christmas Island," Moh told Will as they huddled together for warmth, blowing on their frozen fingers. "With shortbread too."

"On Christmas Island, it's always Christmas," Wiggins told the shivering Irregulars huddled around him as they looked up at him with faces thin from the cold. "And no one is ever cold and alone."

Every Irregular had heard of Christmas Island, and on nights when they were cold and hungry, staring at the Christmas celebrations in the city while they hoped they would survive the night, they all wished they could be there instead.


	24. Up On The Rooftops

_Prompt from Domina Temporis: Up on the rooftops._

"John, did you hear something?" Mary asked me late one December night. It was only a few days before Christmas, and we were enjoying a quiet night in by the fireside, she with her knitting, and me with a copy of the latest medical journal.

"Not a thing, dearest," I assured her. Still, there had been several burglaries in our area lately, serious enough that I had even gone to Holmes for assistance, so I put down my journal, asking, "What did it sound like?"

"It sounded like something on the roof." She startled, dropping her knitting, then twisted to look upwards. "There it is again! Something up on the rooftops!"

I opened my mouth to ask her for more details, when I heard the sound as well. It sounded like something scrabbling on the rooftops, but was a much heavier sound than any small animal that may normally reside there would make. I grabbed a poker from the fire, and with a warning at Mary to stay inside, I ventured up to the rooftops.

To my surprise, there I found Holmes, lying on the ground with blood running from his forehead. "Holmes!" I exclaimed.

He stirred with a groan, and I helped him to sit upright. "What happened?" I asked.

"The last thing I remember was a man in red appearing from behind the chimney. We tussled, and I had him at my mercy when he slipped my grip and slammed head against the rooftop. After that, I do not know."

After a brief search of the rooftop for clues, which Holmes insisted on, I brought him back inside to tend his injuries. He ended up staying the night as I watched him for a concussion.

After that night, the burglaries stopped. While Holmes maintains that the man was an amateur, scared off by meeting opposition, I am not so convinced...


	25. A Hook Goes Here

_Prompt from Stutley Constable: A hook goes here, and it hangs like this._

It's Christmastime on Baker Street

Mrs Hudson cooks, so her boys can eat.

While she's downstairs baking this thing and that,

Watson and Holmes decorate the flat.

A hook goes there, and it hangs like this.

Mistletoe here, as it's hung for a kiss.

Presents for the tree, with bright red bows.

What they contain, only Holmes can know.

Candles flood the room with their light,

As Mrs Hudson surveys the room with delight.

"Boys!" She exclaims, "what a job you've done!"

And now I am sure Christmas has begun!"


	26. Nostalgia

_Prompt from BookRookie12: Nostalgia_

Things used to be very different in the office, Williams mused in a fit of nostalgia. When he had started out, it was practically expected that officials would have a little extra on the side. There were so much to get done, so many people with expectations, it was easy enough to let something slip to the bottom of the pile in exchange for a small donation. In those days, a man could get rich working in government, as long as he was careful.

Now, with sharper eyes keeping lookout, all the old traditions were fading away. Even his small indiscretions, nothing compared to what his predecessors had done, would eventually be sniffed out and punished.

Mycroft Holmes' assistant appeared at Williams' side. "Mr Holmes would like you to see him in his office. Now."

Williams gathered his things regretfully, knowing he most likely would not be coming back here again. Yes, things used to be very different around here.


	27. Blood-Soaked

_Prompt from sirensbane: Blood-soaked_

Blood welled from the wound, quickly soaking through the thin fabric. Watson looked down at Holmes in horror. He opened his mouth, but then had to shut it against a grimace of pain as he fell to the ground.

Holmes crawled over, broken leg dragging behind him. "Watson? Watson, tell me what to do! How can I fix this?"

"Pressure," Watson gasped, breathing ragged. "Pressure... on the wound. Don't-" He bit his tongue against a cry of agony. "Don't stop."

Holmes nodded, pulling himself upright to press against Watson's blood-soaked side. Watson's hand clamped around his wrist, and he looked down to meet Watson's steely gaze. "Don't stop."

"I won't," Holmes vowed. He pushed against Watson's side, keeping the pressure.

Even as Watson moaned with agonised pain, struggling to get away, until his struggles died away and he was no longer conscious, even as Holmes' own leg sent searing shoots of fire up his thigh, Holmes did not stop. When Lestrade, warned by one of Holmes' Irregulars, raced into the alley with a squadron of officers at his back, still Holmes had not stopped.


	28. Snowed In

_Prompt from cjnwriter: Snowed in. Sequel to previous chapter._

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, but there will simply be no going out today. The snow is too thick, especially considering your injuries." Mrs Hudson gestured to Holmes' heavily bandaged leg, and the crutches leaning against the wall nearby. A case gone drastically wrong had left Holmes with a broken leg, as well as nearly causing Watson's death.

"I will manage," Holmes said brusquely. "Call me a hansom, I will be down there shortly." He began to leverage himself to his feet, but almost immediately sank back into his chair with a wince. "Mrs Hudson, the crutches?"

Mrs Hudson brought the crutches to Holmes, who quickly snatched them out of her hands. She followed him across the room, saying, "All of Baker Street is snowed in, Mr Holmes! There aren't any hansom cabs out today." More softly she added, "Dr Watson will understand. You can still visit him once the snow clears."

Holmes stopped only long enough for her to be sure he had heard her words, then changed course to his bedroom, closing the door abruptly behind him.

Mrs Hudson sighed. Clasping her hands, she prayed that Dr Watson would be well enough to come home soon – not just for his own sake, but to save her from Holmes' temper!


	29. Mystery Ball

_Prompt from Ennui Enigma: Inspector Lestrade attends a Christmas ball and finds himself in the midst of mystery._

"A murder mystery ball?" Beth turned to her husband, eyes bright with excitement. "What a brilliant idea, don't you think?"

Lestrade hesitated. He hadn't had any idea this Christmas ball was themed, or he would not have come at all, especially for a fake murder. He saw enough death in his regular days. But now that he was here, and faced with his wife's enthusiasm for the idea, he couldn't really back down now. Besides, as a police inspector, surely he would have an advantage in any mystery game, and at least the body wouldn't be real.

"Of course!" he agreed, nodding at their host. "Though I hope costumes are not required?" He half-hoped that costumes were required, and they would have to leave, but those hopes were dispelled when their hostess shook her head, beaming at them.

"No costumes at all!" she laughed. "I wanted it to feel as real as possible." She led them inside, talking all the way. "I've always been fascinated by mysteries, especially since reading all of those stories in the Strand about the detective, Sherlock Holmes. It's just so fascinating, how he can see so much! I did try to invite him," she confided, leaning in close, "but I received word back that he was on the continent for a case. He must be so dedicated, not even taking time off for a party."

Lestrade, who had seen Holmes in Baker Street that very morning watching Watson tell stories to the Irregulars, couldn't stop himself from snorting.

Beth elbowed him in the side. "If you don't mind me asking, how did you set all this up?" she asked, gracefully distracting their hostess. "I've never been to a mystery party before."

"I do hope there is no real body," Lestrade added with a warning look. If she had taken a body from the morgue just to have as a prop for her game, he would be arresting her for it, no matter what protests she tried to give.

Their hostess brushed him off. "Of course not! No, I hired someone to play the body. As for everything else, it will all be revealed in time..."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. What was the point of going to a party if he had to deal with all the mystery and dramatics he normally had at work? Holmes' occasional dramatics were a small price to pay for the feats he was capable of, but this hostess had not even that to recommend her.

Their hostess interrupted his thoughts with a sudden shriek. "My vase! That was hiding the first clue!" She turned to look at Beth with devastated eyes. "My mother gave that to me."

"Don't worry, Marie," Beth said firmly, putting a comforting arm around the other woman's shoulders. "My husband is the best detective at Scotland Yard. He'll find it for you."

Lestrade held back a smile, not wanting to appear to be taking this lightly, but inside he was buoyed with confidence and excitement. This was much more interesting than a murder mystery party!


	30. At The Opera

_Prompt from cjnwriter: At the opera._

At the opera

For a new show:

Exciting

Rare and

New.

About Sherlock Holmes,

Ace detective,

The city's

Newest

Tale.

The posters promise

A night of song.

Mystery!

Danger!

Love!

Excitement rises.

Tickets sell out.

Everyone

Wants to

See.

Audience settles.

The show opens.

Curtains rise.

Applause.

Sing.


	31. New Years' Indulgence

_Prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead: Overindulgence on New Years' Eve._

 _After some serious last-minute writing, I have finished right on New Years' Eve! Thank you to everyone who participated in this year's challenge with me, and special thanks to Hades Lord of the Dead for setting things up. It's been amazing reading everyone's stories and reviews, and I am looking forward to doing it again in 2019! Happy New Year!_

"My, Mrs Hudson, you have certainly outdone yourself!' Watson exclaimed, looking at the long table laden with goodies of all kinds.

Mrs Hudson beamed happily at him. "It's just so good to see you and Mr Holmes in the house again! It's felt so strange these last few years without you two, I wanted to see in the New Year in style."

"Besides, we do have quite a party coming," Holmes mentioned, getting up from his armchair to inspect the feast himself. "The Irregulars alone will polish off most of this, and my brother has no mean appetite either."

"Not all Irregulars anymore," Watson reminded him. Holmes had been both pleased and dismayed to find that in his absence, Wiggins had joined the police force, and was currently working at Scotland Yard as a Constable. "Though it is nice to be here, after all these years." Still, the smile faded from Watson's face as he thought about where he had spent his last few New Years - or more precisely, who he had spent them with.

A knocking on the front door saved Holmes from having to reply. Mrs Hudson bustled to the front door to open it, letting in Inspector Lestrade. He thanked her, brushing the snow off his hat and coat before hanging them up in the entranceway. "That's quite a spread," he remarked, eyes widening at the many dishes laid out before them. "It's been a long shift today, I'll be looking forward to getting into some of that. New Years seems to drive all the crazies onto the streets."

Gradually, the other guests filtered in, each one marvelling at the food set before them. Still, until the final guest could arrive, they had to satisfy themselves with drinks and conversation, even as the clock struck steadily forwards.

Finally, at only an hour to midnight, Wiggins hurried through the door, slamming it closed behind him. "Sorry, guv," he said breathlessly. "O'Neill wanted me for a case, wouldn't let me go. Had to run here from the Yard once we finished."

While Lestrade muttered grumpily about what he would do to O-Neill tomorrow, Mrs Hudson pushed Wiggins into a seat, chivying them all to the table after him. "Now, we can finally begin. Happy New Year to you all!"

"Happy New Year!" The crowd chorused, and then the meal began.


End file.
